Chapter Text
The streets of Monte Carlo shimmered beneath a soft sheen of post-storm drizzle, like the city had been polished by the clouds. Traffic moved slow and silent, as if the world had agreed to whisper. The Mediterranean air still held a faint electric tension, like something important was about to happen.
In a corner office on the ninth floor of an elegant modernist building overlooking the port, Kassia Moreau spun a gold Montblanc pen between her fingers, not because she was nervous, but because she was bored. Rarely did her calendar have gaps—her clients didn’t deal in small problems—but today, she had a strange stretch of silence between depositions.
She looked every bit the Monaco power player: silk blouse pressed crisp, black pencil skirt, heels that doubled as weapons. Kass didn’t do soft. Her charm was precise, her mind an arsenal, and her patience was a thing you earned. Most people called her Kass. Those who called her "Kassia" were either her mother, a judge, or about to lose in court.
She glanced down at her phone for the sixth time in as many minutes. A new notification blinked on the lock screen:
Max V. - Intro from Charles.
Her brow arched.
She opened the message.
Hey, this is Max. Charles said I should talk to you about a legal thing. Not super urgent. Can I buy you a coffee?
She read it twice. Her lips curled into a slight smirk. Charles Leclerc was a known mischief-maker when he was off track. He was also her occasional wine-night confidant, the kind of friend who could tell when Kass needed distraction—and apparently decided a Formula 1 World Champion would do the trick.
Kass swiped open her contacts and typed a quick reply.
Depends on the coffee.
Not thirty seconds passed before another ping.
I’m Dutch. I take this stuff seriously.
She laughed. Aloud. In her office. Alone. That hadn’t happened in a while.
She texted back.
Café de Paris. 4 p.m. Don’t be late.
It was 3:57 when she stepped into the grand terrace of Café de Paris. Monaco’s golden hour draped the scene in amber, and the lingering moisture in the air gave the light a softness that even Kass couldn't deny was romantic.
She claimed a table near the edge, ordered a macchiato, and watched as tourists posed at the foot of the casino’s marble steps. When she looked up again, Max Verstappen was walking toward her.
He looked like someone who didn’t quite belong to the world he inhabited. Hair tousled from the wind, leather jacket slightly creased, his expression somewhere between guarded and curious. No entourage. No flash. Just Max.
He stopped at her table and extended a hand.
"Kassia Moreau?"
She took it, noting his grip—firm, but not performative.
"Max Verstappen. You're taller than I expected."
He pulled out the chair across from her and shrugged. "Everyone says that. Or they tell me I look more serious on TV."
"You do," she replied, sipping her drink. "But I assume that’s just your professional face."
He nodded, then leaned back, studying her. "Charles said you’d be intimidating. I thought he was exaggerating."
Kass smiled, slow and unapologetic. "He wasn’t."
Their waiter returned, and Max ordered an espresso—black, no sugar. Kass raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, Dutch. Respect."
He smirked. "Told you. I take this seriously."
She sat back, crossing one leg over the other. "So, Verstappen. What’s the legal 'thing'?"
He shifted in his chair. "Honestly? I do have some questions about contracts, NDAs, and how to not end up in court with some startup that’s slapping my face on their products without permission. But I also…"
He hesitated. Then chuckled, sheepish. "I mostly messaged because Charles said I’d like you. And I figured—worst case, I get legal advice. Best case, I get good coffee with someone who doesn’t care what lap time I did yesterday."
Kass tilted her head. She was used to ambition, bravado, fast talkers with faster egos. But Max? Max didn’t posture. He just sat there, blue eyes direct, unflinching. Honest.
She wasn’t sure how to handle that.
"I don’t know your lap time," she said finally. "But I know you’re leading the championship. That’s not nothing."
He waved a hand. "It’s just points. Not peace of mind."
The conversation shifted easily. He told her about moving to Monaco full-time, how the solitude could be a blessing and a trap. She told him about defending a billionaire who thought he was above the law and how gratifying it was to prove him wrong. He laughed at all the right moments. She listened without checking her watch.
At some point, the espresso was gone, the macchiato long cooled. The sun dipped behind the rooftops, and the streetlights flickered on like a curtain call.
Kass glanced at the time. "I usually charge by the hour."
"Then I guess I owe you dinner."
She arched a brow.
"A second meeting," Max clarified. "With better lighting. No legal pretense."
She considered him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"One dinner. But if you show up in Red Bull gear, I’m billing you."
He grinned. Wide. Easy. Like someone who knew exactly what kind of game he’d just started.
"Noted, counselor."
And just like that, the wheels began to turn.